


The tail slate of our story

by Captain_Mercurian



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Break Up, I AM SORRY, M/M, Peter isnt a werewolf, and Roman isnt an Upir, at least nothing of the sort is mentioned, this is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:46:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6811735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Mercurian/pseuds/Captain_Mercurian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their beginning had been a colourful 3D-masterpiece, HD and all that shit, with cheesy soundtracks to fill the gaps between their meaningful dialogues that had always been accompanied by the ringing of their laughter.<br/>He had no idea when their film reel had collapsed on itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The tail slate of our story

He didn't know how it happened. How they ended up there, standing in the kitchen of their first flat, looking at each other with _that_ look – that _ugly_ look that said “ _This isn't working_ ” and “ _Why are we still doing this?_ ” and maybe even “ _I am glad it's over_ ”.

And it was. The moment Peter had thrown his arms up into the air, exasperated and fed up, groaning with his voice full of frustration, Roman had known that it was over.

“ _This is it_ ,” Peter's gesture said as he tipped his head back, hands covering his face in desperation. “ _This is as far as I can go_.”

Roman knew how to read him. He had to because Peter was terrible at talking. That idiot could happily chat along for hours as long as his words didn't mean a damned thing but once they were needed, important even, his mouth was sealed shut. Then he would splutter and stutter and mumble incoherent nonsense and in the end, he wouldn't have said anything at all; not really, at least.

Groaning, sighing and growling he could do. Good even. Peter was a flagship-caveman. But hey, what did he expect from gypsy trash like him anyway?

So, Roman had to learn how to read the movements of his hands since they spoke louder than his mouth ever could. Somehow Peter had managed to create his very own kind of sign language without even realizing it.

Maybe that's what being alone for as many years as he had been did to you.

Maybe, it made your tongue a useless piece of meat, rendered you to a naked looking ape, reliant on exaggerated arm movements and retarded groans.

Maybe, it was just the way Peter's brain worked – Born like that or whatever. After all, Roman had been alone for just as long if not longer and he had never sputtered the kind of stupid shit that Peter had. Also, Roman never moved his hands while talking; actually, he never moved at all while talking. He just didn't do fidgeting and gesticulating. It simply looked ridiculous and stupid and it made it hard for him to take anyone doing that serious.

“ _Lack of self-control is what it is_ ,” he had said once during one particularly stupid fight which had resulted in Peter indulging in even more pathetic flapping of his hands which Roman had translated as: “ _At least, I am not an emotionless bastard like you_.”

After all, “ _Gnaghrrrrrr!_ ” paired with a desperate moan and a very exaggerated flip-off wasn't exactly what one might describe as overly meaningful.

Actually, thinking of them like that made it pretty clear how they ended up there; Peters hands tangled in his own too-long and shaggy hair, eyes huge and sad and hopeless whereas Roman stood there like a fucking statue, face as hard as stone. They were nothing alike, it should have been a no-brainer that eventually they'd have to face the fact that whatever they had had been doomed even before it begun.

It had been a pathetic try for a relationship, to be honest.

From that perspective, it was a surprise that they even got that far; standing in the kitchen of their first flat. Honestly, they shouldn't have even had a 'first flat' in the first place. _This_ should have happened long before they even had the mere _idea_ of moving in together.

He couldn't remember when and why but he knew that once upon a time he had thought Peter's gesticulating to be charming. It seemed like ages ago when it hadn't bothered him at all that the gypsy's vocabulary resembled that of a 12-Year-old; that he sometimes stared at him with question marks floating out of both his ears because he had no idea what 'sophisticated' and 'stroboscopic' meant; that he sometimes cursed in Romani (Once he thought the sound of that foreign language to be incredibly attractive but now it sent him on edge and made his skin crawl in a very unpleasant way. Especially, since he had _no idea_ what the hell Peter was saying and he _hated_ not knowing things.) and spat on the ground whenever he was in a foul mood.

Roman hated talking to Peter. He hated Peter's high-pitched voice and the way he slurred as if he was too lazy to open his damned mouth properly. But then again, he also hated not talking to Peter. It felt like every minute they spent in silence widened the gap between them, more and more, until everything that he had wanted to never let go of, slipped right out of his grasp – and, eventually, out of his reach.

And that was what was happening right now. They covered themselves in silence, isolated their hearts and minds from each other and muted themselves like they would mute the TV when whatever programme they had been watching - out of boredom and lack of motivation to do anything that would have required them to socialize with each other – became unbearable.

Their relationship was a parody of a silent film and he hadn't realized how much he wanted to see “The End” written above their heads up until now.

Still, it would ache to see their names next to each other in the credits and it would take him a lot of willpower to not wind back to the very beginning because their beginning – their beginning was different. Their beginning had been a colourful 3D-masterpiece, HD and all that shit, with cheesy soundtracks to fill the gaps between their meaningful dialogues that had always been accompanied by the ringing of their laughter.

He had no idea when their film reel had collapsed on itself.

Peter was staring at him like he wanted to say something, but he didn't, and Roman didn't, either. There was a sob, so quite that he almost missed it, but he hadn't and he knew it wasn't his. The puppy eyes, he had once fallen in love with, were glazed over with tears and the gypsy still hadn't dropped his fucking hands that were still groping his hair as if he'd fall apart if he let go of himself. This looked like falling apart and Roman didn't know if he could bear the sight.

 _It must be frustrating_ , he thought as he watched Peter's lids flutter and his lips tremble, _to not know what the person in front of you feels_.

Because Roman could read Peter but Peter couldn't read Roman.

And that was what Peter hated about _him_. His lack of expression, the emptiness in his eyes and the way he depended on him telling him about what (and _if_ ) he felt because he couldn't _see_. He wondered if he was really that difficult to read or if Peter simply never bothered to try and figure him out. After all, gypsy trash was said to be lazy.

_And rich fucks like you are said to be cruel_ , he could hear Peter say. 

Peter's face twitched and then there was a whimper as he finally grimaced, succumbing to the desire to just fucking  _wail_ .

 

No, he had no idea how that happened. How Peter ended up there, weeping like a child as Roman read the final phrase of their very own film script: “ _We're done_ .”

 

Peter's hands finally dropped.

 

“ _I know_ ,” it said.


End file.
